


Caesura

by Miracule



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brief suicidal ideation, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, References to being sick, drinking and getting drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 17:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9559133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule
Summary: He can’t tell Thursday what’s wrong because he hasn't come to terms with it himself. This is a pain that Morse does not understand. It’s a lake—dark and deep and cold. It’s Joan. But it isn't.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Some Harvest stuff! Takes place between "handshakes are for goodbye" and Morse getting the call about Joan. Also, I tried to tag everything that might make an appearance here, but there's nothing too graphic, really. 
> 
> This is basically just me trying to get into Morse's head.

Morse refuses to drink with Thursday because he knows that if he drinks, he’ll cry.

It won’t be a pretty sight—a detective constable reduced to snot and tears and god-awful lip-trembling. It would make a fool of himself and embarrass Thursday. He wants to— _stay, that is_ —but it just won’t do.

Morse extends his hand, but Thursday isn’t sure what to make of that.

“Monday, Morse. Handshakes are for goodbye.”

This _is_ goodbye. The lump in his throat swells.

He turns mechanically and walks away. He can feel Thursday’s eyes boring craters into his back, but he doesn’t turn; he leaves. For good.

At home, he does cry.

He cries for Joan, for Win, for Thursday, for himself... And then again for Joan and what they might’ve been, if he’d _acted_. If he’d been there or tried harder or been better.

He remembers Thursday’s frigid gaze and _"You should have said something."_

Why hadn’t he? He’d kept a father from his daughter; robbed a mother of her sleep and her sanity. He'd let Joan go. Is there a graver sin? Lust, maybe. No, not that. _Envy_. He’ll burn for that first.

 _Squandered_ , he’d said. Very true, that. Very, very true.

He whimpers and hugs himself because there isn’t anyone to do it for him. He wonders what Joan is doing right now—whether she’s safe. He tells himself that she must be because the alternative renders him entirely inert. It’s as if the blood in his veins has turned to icy, muddy slush.

 

. . . . . . . . . 

 

His ears are ringing.

They’ve been ringing since the plant; when he’s quiet, it’s nearly deafening. He wonders if the blast has damaged his hearing for good. What if it never goes away? Don’t think like that. _Don’t think like that._

He takes stock of the other bits instead:

LEGS—sore, but nothing new.

ARMS—eh.

NECK—not good. Bending hurts. The pain shoots down his back like an electric current.

STOMACH—empty.

HEAD—strange. Dizzy.

Well, drunk.

He stares at the glass in his hand. He almost drops it—or throws it, on purpose—but decides not to because he doesn’t have many more where that came from. He thinks about screaming until his voice gives out, but he doesn’t want to scare the neighbors.

Death if preferable to this. Why can’t he just die? _For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause..._ He’s not too keen to see the other side—not until he’s good and ready.

He drinks until he can hardly think in a straight line and then he stops. He won’t be found unconscious or dead in a pool of his own sick. His pride won’t allow it.

Time passes.

He rummages through his records and decides which to take and which to leave behind. Perhaps he could bequeath one or two to a friend. Dr. DeBryn might like something to remember him by. The thought brings Morse some small degree of comfort.

Time stretches.

A firm knock at the door startles him badly.

He sits, crouched on the floor in front of his motley collection, waiting. Must be a mistake, that. They’ll go away.

It sounds again, but this time a voice filters through: “If you’re in there, Morse, just open up, will you?”

The boss.

Morse sits back on his heels and nearly topples over.

Slowly, with the support of his coffee table, he stands. “Be right there, sir,” he croaks, nudging an empty bottle into the corner, out of sight. Thursday won’t notice it there. Well, as long as he doesn’t look down, anyway.

Even working the door proves difficult, and as if on cue, the lump manifests in his throat the very moment the lock clicks.

“I was cleaning,” he says as the night air rushes in. He dusts himself off to prove it, taking the opportunity to look in every which way except into Thursday’s face.

It isn’t any use. Fred Thursday’s not a fool and he’ll know what’s happening in about two seconds regardless of what Morse says. Might as well own up to it. “I’m drunk, sir,” he mutters.

“I can see that.” Thursday sighs quietly; lets himself in.

“I’m sorry,” Morse adds, tugging at the hair at the base of his skull.

“What for, lad?” asks Thursday, settling into the better armchair.

“For being drunk... I suppose.” Morse locks the door and dips his head against it. Pull yourself together, he begs. _Please, be sober._  

“What’s gotten into you?”

Morse turns and shrugs.

“What is it? Is it Joan? What I said about a wasted trip?”

Morse can feel himself slipping.

“It’s nothing, sir. I’m just—a job. I’ve been offered a job.”

The words spill out of him. He’ll talk about anything if it means not talking about Joan.

Thursday goes quiet.

When he finally does speak, his tone is hard; unlike him. “Keeping a lot of secrets, aren’t you?” There’s real anger there—hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.” It’s the truth—Morse really doesn’t know. It’s something that just _was_. It just happened, is all. It wasn’t a choice; it was something that occurred.

He realizes that’s probably not what Thursday wants to hear. What should he say, then? Sorry?

“I’m sorry,” he tries. It’s a shot in the dark—in his stupor, Morse is clumsy.

Thursday looks at him strangely. “You _are_ pissed,” he sighs. “I don’t remember the last time you said sorry for anything.”

“I am, though.” Morse’s voice has risen, but he only notices when it bounces awkwardly around the room. “I am,” he settles.

Thursday is pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why? Why go... Where _are_ you going?”

“London.”

“The Met?” Thursday scoffs, but Morse is too queasy to snap back. He wouldn’t want to, either. Thursday could spit in his face and call him a coward and that would be fine, really.

“Morse.” That’s the boss again, sounding awfully sharp. Morse only realizes that he’s leaned his whole body against the wall when he pulls himself upright.

“Sir?”

“Why don’t you sit down?”

Before Morse can act on the suggestion, a significant wave of nausea roots him to the spot. Oh, he’s done it. He’s done it. That last finger of whisky’s put him over the edge.

“Um,” he begins. He scratches at the back of neck—skin feels weird—and is suddenly _very_ aware that the room is tilting in all of these different directions. “Actually, sir, I really don’t—”

Thursday is up and crossing the floor before he can finish the sentence; takes Morse’s arm before he can process the proximity.

“You’ve gone white,” Thursday mutters. His voice isn’t so terribly sharp anymore. “How much did you drink?”

Morse wants to say “enough,” but if he speaks, he’s pretty sure he’ll gag, and that’s just as bad—if not worse—than breaking down in tears.

 

 

. . . . . . . . . .

 

 

Morse wakes up parched, sore, and entirely uncertain of where he is. He knows he’s not his own bed—that’s for sure. This isn’t a bed at all; it’s a couch. So whose, then? _This is the Thursday’s sitting room,_ a different part of him answers, contented. He remembers being sick, Thursday marching him out of his flat, and Thursday dumping him into the front seat of the car.

Morse remembers trying to argue, but he hadn’t been able to string a coherent sentence together. That had been the last straw. “I’m taking you to mine,” Thursday said, and that was that. 

Still, despite coming into some foggy, nearly-sober awareness, Morse feels uneasy.

The thing that scares him the most is the quiet. He can no longer hear the familiar rumble of cars in the adjacent street. Out of habit, he looks for their headlights against the ceiling. But the dark here is built up around him like an obsidian wall.

Until he sits up. There’s a bit of a glow coming from the kitchen.

“Morse?”

The voice is alarmingly close and Morse practically leaps out of his skin.

Even when he recognizes it as Thursday’s, his hands shake and his heart beats furiously against his ribs.

“Jesus,” says Thursday—sounding more than a little startled himself. Light floods the room from an old lamp near Win’s favorite armchair. The chair is occupied by Thursday, who looks just as harried as Morse might expect him to.

“Thought you were gasping your last,” he mutters. “Scared the living daylights out of me.”

“You scared _me_ ,” Morse answers haltingly. “I didn’t think you’d be sitting there.”

Thursday doesn’t dignify that with a response. “Feeling all right?”

Morse doesn’t know. His stomach is all scrunched up; sore. He definitely remembers being sick—twice in his flat, once leaning out of Thursday’s car. That must’ve been a sight. He remembers Thursday’s hand resting on his back and—oh, _Christ_. Crying.

“You’ve got your color back,” Thursday muses. It’s a little jibe, Morse realizes after a moment. It’s because his face is flushed.

Morse wishes he’d kept drinking. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to recall every excruciatingly shameful detail.

“Morse,” Thursday lowers his voice. “It’s all right. Happens to us all at one point or another, doesn’t it?”

“It doesn’t.” Morse corrects him. Well, it shouldn’t; not when you’re out of school.

There’s a considerable stretch of quiet before Thursday speaks again. “You can tell me what’s going on, you know. I won’t think any less of you.”

“I know.” _That’s the worst part._ “But I...”

“Can’t? Won’t?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know how to...” Morse trails off. _I don’t know how to articulate it._

He can’t tell Thursday what’s wrong because he hasn't come to terms with it himself. This is a pain that Morse does not understand. It’s a lake—dark and deep and cold.

It’s Joan. But it isn't.

“It’s just _me_ ,” Morse explains.

Perhaps Thursday understands. He doesn’t seem phased. “I’m not going to push you tonight, lad. It’s just...”

Morse looks at him. The light from the lamp by Thursday’s head illuminates the lines in his face. His eyes are bright.

“In London... You’ll keep in touch, won’t you? Let us know how you’re getting on?”

Morse blinks, bewildered. _That’s right—London. Saving the world._

“I will.”

“Good.” Thursday pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs tremulously. “Now let’s get you a glass of water.”

Morse watches him go and suddenly everything feels very, very still. 

It’s not that the pain isn’t there, but it’s a hard, crystalline thing—frozen over in the dead of winter.

 


End file.
